


The Meanings Of Flowers

by Hollandoodle



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, How to Say, SanSan Russian Roulette, Sansan Russian Roulette 2018, florist, fuck you, sansan, summer sansan russian roulette, with flowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 08:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14996711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hollandoodle/pseuds/Hollandoodle
Summary: The prompt I was given for the Summer Sansan Russian Roulette on Tumblr by @l60014:Sansa is a florist. One day, Sandor comes storming into her shop, slaps 20 bucks on the counter and says, “How do I passive-aggressively say ‘fuck you’ in flowers?”Prompt by @mynameisnoneya1991





	The Meanings Of Flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mynameisnoneya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisnoneya/gifts).



> Had so much fun writing this prompt! Finding a reason for Sandor to make this request was tricky, but I think I did the prompt justice!
> 
> As always, thanks to my wonderful beta LadyCleganeofTheNorth!
> 
> Also, a note for the fic: The Pentoshi Spencer Sweet Peas are renamed versions of the English Spencer Sweet Peas, for artistic license!
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not a florist, I do not have a botany degree, nor do I work in a floral shop. Credit goes to Google for any accurate or inaccurate flower meaning descriptions LOL...

It was a day like any other. The sun was shining brightly through the shop’s front windows, soft classical music played through the speakers at the front counter, and Sansa was kept occupied by the selection of new blooms being offered by her supplier on their website. She was like a woman in an upscale, downtown King’s Landing handbag store--she wanted to place an order for each one.

Flowers had always been her  _ thing _ \--from the time her mom told her about all the dandelion bouquets Sansa brought her when she was just a toddler, to the elementary school when she would slyly rearrange the flowers in Olenna Tyrell’s foyer during sleepovers with Margaery. This developed into an uncanny knack for knowing what flower went with what, what colors would bring out the bride’s eyes, and what scent could cheer up an ailing veteran in the hospital. 

Her fixation on flowers saw her through a double major in botany and business, and to the small loan co-signed by her father to open this store. And the rest of the story was in the positive reviews about her flower shop left on the internet and the first hand accounts of satisfied customers who called her again and again.

Even Margaery, who somehow followed Sansa’s path and sailed through college without paying much attention, now played an integral role in the small store as the main customer service rep. Sansa had the floral skills while Margaery had the social prowess to dazzle prospective buyers.

But on a day like this one--a Tuesday morning, when everyone was at work and they rarely had any foot traffic--Margaery was probably off having tea with her grandmother, most likely weaving her way into Olenna next charity gala and convincing the octogenarian that Sansa was the right woman to supply the floral arrangements and centerpieces. But the older woman was wise and, as she had told Sansa on many occasions, didn’t need to be convinced. It was just like Margaery to sing Sansa’s praises, as it was just like Olenna to indulge her only granddaughter out of love for the younger woman.

But today, Sansa was alone in the shop. And truth be told, some days she preferred it that way. She could sip her coffee while browsing online catalogs, mentally taking notes on new types of dahlias and interesting rose hues. She could dream of a larger store, despite truly loving her current one. But she could do it in silence, without the pressure to make conversation from sunup to sundown with Margaery.

The orders for the day had been filled, the bouquets either picked up or delivered by the courier service she hired, leaving Sansa to face a long day of merely maintaining the blooms in her shop and waiting for closing time.

So it startled her out of her internet-induced trance when the tinkling bell at the top of the door crashed into the frame as the door was forcefully swung open, announcing what she hoped was a potential customer. But she looked up to see the sun blotted out by the massive form of a very large, very intimidating beast of a man.

He nearly had to duck to get through the door; Sansa guessed he was six and a half feet tall, maybe closer to seven. Sansa had never seen a man of this gentleman’s height up close like that, and she felt her heart race inside her chest when she wondered if the stranger, clad all in black, could possibly be a thief rather than someone interested in purchasing one of her flower arrangements.

Why, oh  _ why _ did she leave her phone on the back work table? 

She swallowed around a very dry throat when he let the door swing shut behind him as his long, purposeful strides brought him directly up to the counter.

When he flicked his head to the side and his hair swung back towards his cheek Sansa too an involuntary step backwards and raised her hand to her chest at the sight he made across the counter.

Scars. Or rather, one large one covering the upper portion of the right side of his scowling face. He had combed some of his long black hair, perhaps in an attempt to hide the ruined skin, but the black waves were so sparse on that side that there was no disguising the horrific mangled patch that stretched back towards the crown on his head and all the way down to--goodness, she couldn’t even see how far it went.

Sansa swallowed thickly and attempted to school her expression back into a facade of professionalism, but when her gaze met his she was startled by the intensity behind his gray eyes. His scowl was manifested in a glare so menacing that she took another step back, her mouth opening and closing as her mind alternated between wanting to ask him if he was interested in roses and screaming before fleeing into the back of the shop.

And she  _ did _ scream, but only slightly, enough to make a snarl appear beneath his thickly bearded face, as he lifted a hand and slammed it loudly onto the counter.

Beneath his huge palm was the orange hued twenty-dragon note, and when he began to speak his harsh voice brought her eyes back up to his.

“How do I passive-aggressively say ‘Fuck You’ in flowers?”

• ✽ •

 Sandor couldn’t give two shits whether he was scaring the girl or not. He was too angry at what had happened several hours ago, too worked up after pounding the fuck out of the punching bag at the gym for an hour, and too fucking irritated with himself that he’d almost cracked the tile in the private shower attached to his office at Bronn’s gym. He would have bruised knuckles in the morning from that harsh punch he had delivered to the wall.

But  _ fuck _ \--Cersei Lannister could go fuck herself. Over the years he had nearly single handedly built up their security company into one that even Tywin fucking Lannister had paid him a compliment for just the year before at the annual membership meeting with the stockholders. 

“Well done, Clegane,” he’d said, which was high praise from the man known for making his receptionists cry over too much cream in his fucking coffee. 

But perhaps it was fate that Cersei had been standing there--probably the one person in Tywin’s life who needed to hear his praise but who never did. She’d always held a grudge. What a fucking bitch she was, glaring at him while her father heaped those three heavy words on him right in front of her.

Of course, Sandor would never be family and he understood that. But Lannister Security, Inc. was, for lack of a better term, his baby. His brain child. The product of fifteen years of his service to the Lannisters and their willingness to listen to his advice, to give him free reign with their money and to build this poorly managed division of Lannister Holdings into the multi-million dollar corporation it was today.

And Cersei had shit on him. Fired him for an unfounded complaint by an employee he had never laid eyes on, all because her plan would fall into place if only she could find a way to rid the company of him under unfavorable circumstances.

Shit. Sexual harassment was right up there in the  _ unfavorable circumstances _ category.

Fucking Cindy in Accounting. He’d never even seen the woman face to face--had only seen her name on his paychecks--but now he was certain she was sitting on a fairly fat nest egg thanks to Cersei and her team of high-paid, fat-ass lawyers.

The woman behind the flower shop counter was staring at him, and as she remained speechless even after his request, he began to feel uncomfortable. He realized his rage--his disappointment at having to say goodbye to the project that had consumed so much of his life up until today--was probably oozing out his pores like a whore in church. 

She probably wasn't even aware he was a bonafide customer. Hell, with her ocean blue eyes sporting a shocked, deer in the headlights look, she probably thought he was going to rob her.

Sandor took a deep breath and looked down at his hand on the counter, lifting his palm and smoothing out the bill beneath it. 

Calmly, he looked up again, noting how not a single fire red hair on the woman’s head had moved. Her braid still hung over her shoulder, her loosely fisted hand dangling at her side. Taking another breath, he spoke again in a more even tone.

“I need some flowers, but they can’t be pretty.”

Movement. She blinked, and then gave her head the slightest shake as though clearing a fog as she examined his appearance down to where he disappeared behind the low counter-- _ all _ counters were low to him--and back up again. When her eyes came to a stop once again on his face he watched a mask fall into place, but not before the telling tremble of her lower lip as her gaze tracked from his neck to his cheek, over the ridge that used to be an eyebrow, and finally to his eyes.

“I’m…” She blinked again, apparently unable to get the measure of him from a mere perusal of his presence. Then she drew her lower lip between her teeth and released it.

And  _ fuck _ if he didn’t notice how it glistened now. 

_ Shit _ , he thought.  _ This isn’t what I fucking need right now. _

“I’m sorry,” she managed, then had to clear her throat as she resumed a semblance of professionalism and stepped tentatively forward--just one step, but it brought her slightly closer to him. Her voice was smooth and low, and he waited for her to say more. “I only stock… pretty… flowers, sir.”

Sandor’s nostrils flared. He should have known this wasn’t going to be easy.

“What about dead? Or dying?”

The woman’s eyebrows rose slightly in affront, and she clasped both hands in front of her, as though sending a signal that he was not in the right establishment.

When she spoke again her tone was curt but calm, and still polite.

“I do not sell the flowers I have that are dead or dying. To do so would reflect poorly on this business’s name and reputation.”

It was odd. She apparently had the power to make bland words sexy. Sandor turned away, irritated with his unexpected and unwelcome attraction to the pretty clerk, and to the lack of an easy way to acquire what he wanted--which was a professional florist to send an ugly bouquet to Cersei Lannister.

Spying some healthy looking weeds outside growing at the base of a sidewalk tree, he pointed to them.

“What about those? Could you package those up and send them to a recipient?”

Her answer was a firm negative, but hey, he had to try at least.

Apparently in need of another less reputable flower shop, he scooped up the note and shoved it back in his pocket. With one last look around the shop, he tossed a “ _ Thank you _ ” over his shoulder and headed for the door, intent on getting away from this failure and the alluring clerk whose image would surely be burned into his corneas for days to come. 

But as he reached for the handle midway down on the door her voice called out to him and he paused.

“Sir--”

Then footsteps--she was coming out from around the counter. Sandor wrinkled his nose, finding this situation slightly distasteful, but flattened his face as he turned to see her standing just a few feet from him.

“If the message you intend to send with an arrangement is--” she coughed slightly, looking down at the floor as she said the words as though saying them out loud embarrassed her, “ _ fuck you _ , then there is another way you could achieve this.”

Again her eyes met his, and Sandor had cause to wonder if spending a few more minutes in her company would be worth it even if he walked away empty handed.

She really was beautiful. Red hair, coral lips and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Her pale skin disappeared into the wide neck of a burgundy blouse, its soft, puffy sleeves ending at her elbows. Her floral skirt swirled around her knees in colors that reminded him of King’s Landing in the fall, and again he thought to himself she was a real stunner.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he wondered if perhaps she just wanted to make a sale, but couldn’t fault her for that. After watching the bottom line of Lannister Security for so many years, and in comparison taking on a part time management role at Bronn’s gym, Sandor was intimately aware of how important small sales were to small businesses. And if she was willing to give him the time of day despite the request that even he knew to be outlandish, then he would give  _ her _ the time of day to indulge her sales techniques.

• ✽ •

A nod and a grunt was his reply, so Sansa turned and headed towards the first row of shelving that held buckets of cut flowers. 

_ Saying “fuck you” with flowers _ . It was up there with the strangest requests she had ever received, but she was telling the truth. There was always ways to send messages with flowers, if one did their research. And it just so happened that Sansa’s mind held volumes of research on flowers and their meanings.

Knowing the man was directly behind her, she reached for a yellow flower and carefully pulled it out of the bucket of water, turning to find him standing closer than she expected. Keeping professionalism in the forefront of her mind, she simply tilted her head back to look up into his scarred face.

“Chrysanthemum indicum,” she said brightly, looking down at the bright butter yellow flower and giving it a spin so he could see it from all angles. “Known in some countries as a flower you give to someone you wish dead.”

“It’s too pretty,” he grumbled, taking the stem from her and lifting it to his face. She realized he was smelling it before he handed it back, and felt oddly pleased that he was curious enough to smell it. She had not expected that reaction.

“Pretty, yes,” she said, sliding the stem back into the bucket. “But the intent behind it is in fact quite morbid when you think about it.”

Moving along, she felt the warmth radiate off him as he followed closely until she stopped in front of a display of purple flowers. 

“Aconitum vulparia,” she said now, lifting a long, curved stem from the bucket. The flowers draped to one side, beautiful purple blooms in a unique shape, not often seen in popular floral arrangements. “Monkshood. Also known as Wolfsbane. Many different types in this family have been used for thousands of years as poison.”

Again, he took it from her though she noted with a quickly hidden smile that he didn’t bring it to his nose to smell it. But she could see the movement in his brow showing concentration, and she knew he was considering the option.

“Still too pretty,” he finally said, handing it back to her.

Sansa replaced it, nodding and racking her brain for more possibilities. Nearby was a display of hydrangeas, and she turned to slide one out, lifting it to her own nose and inhaling the sweet scent. 

There was nothing about arranging and selling flowers that Sansa did not like. Always one to stop and smell the flowers, as often as she could she took a moment to fill her senses with the fragrances of the flora she sold, which always served to calm her nerves and remind her to stay grounded.

That was, unless she turned in her own shop to find herself nearly nose to chest with a man who didn’t understand personal space.

“Um, excuse me,” she said, shocked to find him standing so close to her. With a small step back she shot him a polite but tight smile, and abruptly lifted the hydrangea to his face.

“Hydrangea macrophylla.”

The man took the stem from her, this time allowing his massive hand to brush hers. Sansa quickly pulled hers away but not before feeling the speed of her heartbeat increase. 

_ He’s standing too close _ , she reasoned with herself, not allowing any more thoughts of the wondering nature to enter her mind. The sale needed to be first and foremost, and she focused on the description of the flower.

“In most circles it’s known as a beautiful flower for arrangements, but in the many meanings used over time, heartlessness and vanity are included.”

Still with the flower pressed into his face, his single eyebrow rose and he looked down at Sansa over the press of flowers forming the broad head. His intense gray irises paired well with the soft, feminine surface of petals, the subtle sky blue of the flowers reflected on the surface of his eyes. One could almost ignore the harshness of his mangled temple and the way his size resembled a bear on two feet rather than a normal man.

Sansa was suddenly entranced by his eyes, and realized too late that she had spent several long seconds staring inappropriately at him with her mouth open, waiting for more professional descriptions to come where she in fact found none. Closing her mouth, she quickly looked away and stopped just short of giving her head a shake. 

_ What in Westeros _ … She had to make the sale or get this man out of her shop. He had somehow gone from scaring the daylights out of her to somehow enchanting her with his intense presence.

She needed a drink. And a fan. And solitude.

When he spoke she remembered he was still standing beside her, so she looked up at him, happy to see he had dropped the flower from his face. But his eyes were focused on hers as he leaned closer, close enough that he could reach past her--his gaze still locked on her--to return the flower to the bucket. Sansa had to lean back or else his mouth would have brushed her hair.

“Show me your favorites,” he said softly, once again standing tall. 

It had to be the beard.  _ Yes, definitely _ . She had always had a thing for guys with beards. It must have been his, that she could now see so closely--dark brown, thick, matching mustache, and that intriguing, harsh swath of skin where beard should have been, that jutted up against it.  _ That _ must have been a catalyst of sorts, the reason why his interest in the flowers and his openly smelling their fragrances had somehow turned him from a potential thief into a man who was apparently large enough to crowd out most of the oxygen left in the store.

The change came so swiftly that she turned abruptly and walked clear across the store, passing several of her favorites in the process, simply to create enough time for her mind to process what was happening.

She had to get him out of the store, sale be damned. Today didn’t feel like a very good day to embarrass herself in front of an intimidating, somehow intriguing, wholly unsuitable for dating stranger.

And dang it, he had followed her. It was like a child following in an adult’s footsteps--his strides landing where hers had just left, so that when she stopped in front of a display of hyacinths.

“Hyacinthus orientalis.” Was her voice higher than normal? She couldn’t be sure. She didn’t want to turn around, knowing the man behind her was yet again standing inappropriately close. She could feel him, sense that he was inside her personal space. 

_ Why did he do that? _

“And it’s one of your favorites, why?”

Sansa smiled, knowing he couldn’t see. But she needed the reminder of what flowers did for her, and she lifted the potted plant to her face and inhaled the strong scent of the flower stalk, feeling for perhaps the millionth time that flowers were gifts for her from the gods. Why else would they put something so sweet smelling in their world unless it was for the enjoyment of their human creations?

“It smells… heavenly,” she settled on, deciding the word was one that fit it quite well. Momentarily forgetting she was supposed to be showing him her favorites, she lifted it once again to her face and inhaled before lowering it back to the shelf.

“May I?” 

His voice was calm, and she knew he asked simply because she didn’t offer. There was no humor in his tone, nor reproach for her breach of professionalism. She had shown him the fragrances of the other flowers, and this one far surpassed the others in richness.

She really should show him, but as they were standing, there was no way to distance herself from him before she turned around. 

So, girding herself for the assault on her feminine sensibilities she knew was coming, she breathed in deeply before turning to face him.

• ✽ •

Sandor was in trouble. Had he thought that before? Since entering the shop?

_ Why the hell am I still here? _

He really needed to assuage his desire to send Cersei one last  _ “Fuck You” _ but couldn’t drag himself away from the pretty employee who seemed intent on ignoring his closeness.

And why the seven bloody hells was he standing so close to her?

_ Apparently I have a penchant for torturing myself _ , he decided as she raised the plant she held in her hands to his face.

Flowers.  _ Blue _ flowers.  _ Stunningly  _ blue flowers.

“They match your eyes,” he blurted out, realizing only too late that he had voiced the last thought in his head out loud. It had to be the grace of the gods that enabled him to keep a straight face rather than let on at how horrified he was that he’d said the words.

She, too, must have been equally horrified since the plant halted in midair, hovering between them as those gorgeous blues widened and stared at him in shock. 

_ A fucking perfect match _ , he decided, managing to keep that thought contained to his mind.

She wasn’t moving, but he wanted to smell those damned flowers that she had smelled twice, so he reached for the pot and instead--as though he had somehow floated out of his body and was watching all six and a half feet of it make a fool of itself--watched himself grasp one of her wrists to tug the pot closer to his face.

It was like sensory overload, and he very nearly jerked away and strode out the door. 

If  _ very nearly _ meant he stood rooted to the spot not moving a single fucking muscle except the ones in his hand that held her soft, dainty wrist in his big, meaty paw.

But she was absolutely right. The flowers smelled like heaven. Her eyes were the prettiest damned eyes he had ever seen, and they were like the personification of the fucking flowers that he knew he would be buying before he carried his sorry ass out of the store.

Fucking hell. This was not how he expected this day to go down.

She was still silent following his absurdly ill-timed compliment so he forced words to exit his mouth, banal words that filled the empty space between them like a children’s bandaid on a biker’s finger.

“You’re right.” But then he had to clear his throat because it was suddenly sweltering in that little floral shop. “They do smell amazing.”

They must have been the right words because the corner of her mouth rose slightly and he realized she was smiling.

“I’ll take two,” he heard himself say down to her almost amused face.

_ What? Where the fuck… _ That would be more than twenty dragons. He needed to shut his trap or he would end up buying two of everything she showed him.

Once she extricated herself from the bubble he seemed to constantly want her to stand in--his bubble, to be exact--she moved on to a bucket of cut stems that were topped by dark pink blooms. He watched over her shoulder as she retrieved a single stem from the bucket, noting the ruffled petals and delicate look of the flower. But this time the woman turned to face him before smelling the flower, as she had done prior to the hyacinth. 

“Pentoshi spencer sweet peas,” she said, her smile widening as she inhaled, the petals lightly pressed to the underside of her nose. As he watched she pulled it away, looking on the bloom with adoration before smelling it a second time.

Her enthusiasm for this flower smelling stuff was contagious. Sandor realized he was waiting expectantly for the moment she would raise it to his face, because whatever made her smile in that way was something he wanted to experience alongside her.

She did, and just as before Sandor grasped her wrist, though this time she looked less shocked than she did pleased. 

She  _ knew _ he was enjoying it. He realized. 

So to test his hypothesis, he smelled the flower at the same time he allowed his lips to curve into a small smile.

Yes, the blush that tinged her cheeks before she turned away, taking the flower with her, was the same color as the sweet pea’s petals.

“So,” she began, wandering slowly away from him without any distinct purpose to her steps, “I’m sure you can see why I am unable to fill your request.” She reached the counter and returned to the back side, coming around to her spot beside the cash register to face him as he approached the other side. “Flower are just too pretty, too wonderful, to ever be an authentic…  _ fuck you _ .” 

In less than five minutes she had somehow morphed from innocent floral shop employee to someone who had opened his eyes to the real reason why stopping to smell the flowers was a good idea. He wasn’t quite sure how to process this, but he nodded in agreement.

But his eye caught on a smaller bucket on the counter behind her, and he pointed at the stems on display, intrigued by what he saw.

“What about those?”

Obviously surprised that he was still interested, she turned, her hand coming up to toy with the end of her braid. It drew his eye and he had to remind himself he was a man on a mission, and that mission was not to stare at the beautiful woman all day.

Her laugh was soft, more of a husky chuckle as she reached for the bucket and put it on the counter between them.

“These?”

Her smile was genuine, her eyes alight with merriment as she plucked one dried, brown stem from the dirty bucket.

Sandor nodded, reaching for another one, only to bump its leaves which crumbled to the countertop.

“These are dead,” he said simply. “Nothing says  _ fuck you _ better than a bouquet of dead flowers.”

In fact, now that he thought about it, he decided it was actually a very clever idea. A dead flower arrangement--along with a personalized note--would send Cersei a message she couldn’t misunderstand; a message that said,  _ ”You cut me off from the company I was supposed to retire with. Here’s what I think about your cold, dead heart.” _

Yes, these shriveled blooms would do nicely.

• ✽ •

Sansa looked up into his eyes to make sure he was being serious. 

“Dead flowers? You want to send  _ these _ dead flowers?”

Her voice was understandably incredulous, as that was a question she had never received before. She had already told him she wouldn’t sell dead flowers, but by dead she had meant the ones that were wilted and ugly, though perhaps still with color in them. These… 

She refused to kid herself. She would be able to make a stunning arrangement with these dead blooms, one that would make someone wonder if the sender had indeed meant for the arrangement to be a thing of beauty. But sending them to someone you didn’t like--as this man obviously was inclined to do--would certainly send the appropriate message.

But he wasn’t paying any attention to her, and was instead turning the dried flower over in his hands and looking at it from all sides. He seemed to be weighing the merit of his own suggestion, and she nearly laughed when he lifted the flower to his nose to smell it.

“Oh, no--it won’t have any scent. These are, well… truly dead.”

He nodded and looked down at her.

“Dead but still pretty.”

Sansa couldn’t help it. She beamed at him. For a man as rough around the edges as he to go from suggesting she send weeds to saying a dead flower was beautiful was quite the improvement. And surprising. And it caused a pang of something to bloom in the center of her chest. Pride? Attraction? 

No, it was a bewildering combination of the two.

“Yes, still pretty. But… It’s not something I’ve done before.”

She wasn’t sure if she  _ should _ , despite knowing that she could. 

Taking another from the bucket, she lifted the stem as an example.

“These are used as accents or in decorations; sometimes arrangements intended as fall centerpieces for weddings and such.”

He replaced the stem he’d been holding and slid his hands into his jeans pockets.

“But would the owner object to you creating one of those out of them?” He pointed to the corner of the counter where a display piece was being showcased, a smaller  _ living _ bouquet in a glass vase meant to entice a customer into purchasing one similar.

Sansa smiled, seeing in that arrangement what would appeal to him. It was tall and slender, with only five or six different types of flowers, and the price tag on the side clearly stated it was just less than twenty dragons.

She turned back to him, putting the dried flowers back in the bucket and removing the bucket once again to the counter behind her as she said, “No, the owner would not object.” Coming back to her position behind the counter, she smiled up at him. “Seeing as how I’m the owner, I give myself permission to construct one arrangement using nothing but these dead,  _ decorative _ \--” she emphasized the word with a raised eyebrow, “--flowers to form a custom  _ fuck you _ bouquet.”

His smile was both scary with how it stretched his scars into the deep creases of exaggerated laugh lines, and infectious, as she found herself unable to hold back a grin of her own.

And whatever possessed her to continue speaking she wasn’t sure, but she plowed ahead, unwilling to halt the words as the idea formed in her mind.

“On one condition.”

His smile mostly faded into a expectant grin as his one remaining eyebrow rose.

“And that is?”

Sansa had to look away. She had never been so forward, but over the previous ten minutes with this man she had somehow gotten the impression that he was not only nice--despite his bouquet request, which she  _ was _ going to get the story behind--but also interesting, gentle, inquisitive, and kind. She had been single long enough that she felt it was time to make a new friend, and perhaps more?

Unable to keep from smiling, she continued speaking as she looked through the vases beneath the counter, producing a nicely patterned brown one.

“You have to invite me to coffee. Tomorrow, maybe ten o’clock?”

She waited a beat and then looked up at him as she pulled out some burlap ribbon from a drawer. He looked shell-shocked for a moment, standing with his mouth hanging open, his lower lip showing beneath his mustache. For an moment Sansa thought maybe she’d made a mistake, maybe she had been too forward and should have just made him his darn bouquet--

Until he grinned, showing white teeth and more smile lines at the corner of his eyes.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, and she thought he might have even rocked back on his heels once. 

Sansa stood with the burlap in hand, ready to head to the back room to gather the supplies needed for the arrangement, thinking how funny it was that she was now waiting for him to say it.

It took him a minute, but when he caught on he leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice, tilting his chin to one side inquisitively.

“Will you? Go to coffee with me tomorrow, ten o’clock?”

Holding the vase to her chest, Sansa nodded, feeling the blush on her cheeks giving away her pleasure at his parrotted request.

“I’ll have to check my schedule--” she began, and then started laughing when the man threw his head back and barked a surprised laugh. All she could do was stare at him as she returned it nervously.

“Aye, you do that. My name is Sandor Clegane, by the way. Manager of Blackwater Gym.” 

He shook his head, still smiling as he held out his hand to shake.

Sansa slid hers into his, feeling a tingling warmth spread from his skin to hers before it travelled up her arm.

“Sansa,” she said quietly, then more loudly, “Sansa Stark, proprietress of Winterfell Blooms.”

With a last smile, he nodded and took a step back. Then another, and another, stepping slowly as though he was reluctant to leave.

“Tomorrow,” she said, also taking a step back towards the back room. “Ten o'clock. I’ll have your--” She lifted the vase up, “--ready.”

“Tomorrow,” he agreed, and they both smiled. 

Sansa turned but it was a few long seconds before she heard the bells chime on the door.


End file.
